


Give Me Novacaine

by 14hpgirl19



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Implied/Referenced Drug Use, John cares about Sherlock so much, M/M, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-02-13
Packaged: 2018-05-20 01:35:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5987671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/14hpgirl19/pseuds/14hpgirl19
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John just wants to know why. Why Sherlock got on that plane high, why he nearly died. After everything they've been through, he thinks he deserves that much.</p><p>Oh, how blind he's been.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Give Me Novacaine

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from "Give Me Novacaine" by Green Day.

They don’t get to talk until later that day. The first few hours after leaving the airfield were spent running over London, going from Baker Street to New Scotland Yard to Parliament, of all places. Sherlock was always two steps ahead of everyone else, and he never fully explained how he knew what he knew, which greatly angered everyone involved. John was too stuck inside his own mind to get incredibly annoyed, which in a way was a blessing. That way, he didn’t strangle Sherlock.

An overdose. The madman had nearly _overdosed._ He tried to pass it off as needing the drugs for the Moriarty case, but John knew better. Mycroft had said it himself; he was high before he’d boarded the plane.

John knows anger. He knows disappointment. He knows fear. All feelings that would be appropriate for a situation like this.

What he doesn’t know is what he’s actually feeling. It’s some kind of molten ball, gathered in the pit of his stomach. His body is pulsing with adrenaline from it, like he could run fifty miles and then explode.

He itches to talk to Sherlock, but there’s still the problem of Moriarty, and London needs him, and John is left to follow him around like he always does.  

In the end, it’s John who ensures they’re alone. Mary has gone back to their home, and most of the Moriarty business is at a standstill. Sherlock wants to go back to Baker Street, and John accompanies him. John takes the time to close the door to the flat, not wanting to be interrupted by Mrs. Hudson, who has been going on and on about how wonderful it is that Sherlock won’t have to go away.

Wonderful. So wonderful.

John hovers by the doorway, watching Sherlock pace the sitting room with his fingers steepled against his mouth. It’s almost normal, habitual, standing there while Sherlock gets lost in the tornado that is his mind. John could almost forget the mess they were in if it hadn’t been the one thing on his mind for the past several hours.

“You need to eat,” he says. Sherlock doesn’t hear him, mumbling instead about hacking network channels. John clears his throat. Nothing. It’s like he isn’t even there. A familiar, white-hot anger starts bubbling up within him.

“Sherlock!”

He nearly trips over a stray pile of books when he whirls around to look at John. John flexes his fingers and takes a deep breath.

“You need to eat,” he repeats. Sherlock frowns.

“That’s not important right now.”

“Like hell it’s not, you haven’t had anything in hours, and you’ve rebounded from a near overdose. You’re eating.”

John doesn’t wait for a response, instead walking straight into the kitchen. He’s unsurprised to find very little food, but manages to heat up a can of soup and some slices of bread. He only has to glare at Sherlock once to get the man to come sit.

The stare Sherlock levels at him is positively mutinous, but John is past caring. He may not be as observant as Sherlock, but he can tell when the man needs to take a break. Right now, Sherlock’s shoulders are lower than normal, and his movements are slower. The fact that John got him to eat with minimal argument is a testament itself. The anger fades to worry, and John wonders how Sherlock could possibly have such little regard for his well-being.

It’s a terribly sad thought, and it’s one that pushes him to ask his next question.

“Are we going to talk about it?” Sherlock looks up from his soup with a confused expression, something that never looks appropriate for him. John sinks into the chair opposite him, and it’s so normal, so normal sitting there with him. There’s something within John that just feels more… complete.

“Talk about what?” Sherlock asks.

“The drugs, Sherlock. You nearly overdosed. You nearly _died_.” It takes all of John’s control to pull back at the end, to not explode. Sherlock looks away.

“I needed to figure out how he did it. Moriarty, how he could be alive. The drugs enhance my mental capability.”

John stares at him. The anger starts to grow again, and he wishes his emotions would calm down because it’s all getting to be just too much.

“And what if,” John starts, forcing his voice to remain level, “I don’t believe that?”

Sherlock’s piercing eyes are on him in seconds.

“You would be ignoring the truth.”

“I don’t think I am.”

Sherlock’s grip on his spoon tightens. “What do you want me to say, John?”

“The truth!” John can’t keep the desperation out of his voice. “Please, Sherlock. Just tell me the truth.” He wishes he sounded stronger, more authoritative, but he almost lost Sherlock _again_ and he’s falling apart.

When Sherlock doesn’t respond, he continues. “You can’t hide behind the Moriarty excuse because you were high before you got on the plane. You took all those drugs before you even knew about it. I just want to know _why._ I think you owe me that.”

Sherlock is so still John could have mistaken him for a statue. Did he do it? Did he finally break the genius?

“You have to understand,” Sherlock starts, and his voice is so quiet John almost didn’t realize he’d spoken. He’s never heard Sherlock speak so softly, it’s unnerving. John inches forward, not wanting to miss a word. “You are the most important person in my life.”

 _Is there any air in this bloody flat?_ John thinks faintly. He’s always suspected as much, since Sherlock has no other friends and isn’t close with his family. But to hear the detective say it out loud… that is a whole other thing, and John’s chest has never felt so tight.

“You’re important to me too,” John says, and it feels weak, and he can tell Sherlock knows it. Sherlock shakes his head ever so slightly. He’s not looking at John.

“No,” he says. “It’s different. You have Mary, your child. I only have you.” He stops here, his eyes widening just a smidge as though he can’t even believe he’s saying these things. John waits, not wanting to scare his friend. The need to know what Sherlock is going to say next has his heart threatening to burst from his chest.

“I knew,” Sherlock continues, “that would be the last time I ever saw you. That it would be our final goodbye. And when confronted with that fact…” Sherlock’s eyes dart over the tabletop, piecing together some internal mystery. “I panicked. I’d said goodbye to you once before, and it tore me apart. I needed something to help me through, so… So. Drugs.”

John seriously wonders about the oxygen levels in the room. His hands are shaking, and why are they shaking? Why does he feel like an invisible force is pushing him into the ground? When did this happen?

“I-I understand,” he says, catching both himself and Sherlock by surprise. Sherlock even looks at him finally, his eyebrows tilting downward in confusion. John coughs, his throat too dry, and continues. “You were saying goodbye to your best friend, that would be hard on anyone. I can understand the need to-”

“Don’t do that.”

Sherlock’s voice catches him by surprise. He blinks.

“Do what?”

“Write it off as an act of friendship. It wasn’t that and you know it.”

And of course John knows it. He doesn’t know it until that moment, but he does. It had always been there, lurking just beyond the surface of their friendship, and he’d always ignored it with the belief that he was imagining things. He convinced himself that Sherlock was married to the work and would have no interest in an ordinary, traumatized army doctor. That John’s life didn’t completely revolve around a mad consulting detective, that he could move on at any point.

But now everything has burst forth like an explosion and John can see it all.

And he’s been so blind.

But he has to be sure.

“What was it, then?”

If Sherlock had looked nervous before, he looks positively terrified now. John suspects if given the choice between jumping off Bart’s again and answering John’s question, he would choose the former. But John refuses to let him escape it. After all this time, he needs to know. He needs it more than he’s ever needed anything.

“John…”

“Sherlock.” His voice is hoarse now, and he has to swallow before continuing. “Please.”

The soup is cold now. A taxi honks outside. It’s gotten darker in the flat, the patches of sunlight on the floor shrinking. Sherlock’s pale face is more shadowed.

“I…” Sherlock gulps. John can see him talking himself out of it.

“Come on, Sherlock. You’ve nearly got it.”

It comes out in a shuddering breath, over before it truly started. It could be a disappointment to some, but it’s all John’s ever needed.

“Iloveyou.”

Something inside of John releases, like a tensed coil waiting to burst forth. He wants to cry, but he doesn’t, and why would he cry anyway? He’s not a child. But he’s warm, that much he can tell. His whole body feels like it’s on fire.

“Why did you never tell me?”

“I thought you wouldn’t reciprocate my feelings,” Sherlock mumbles. “And I’d never felt anything like it before. I was afraid.”

“Of me?”

Sherlock sighs. “Of all of it. You…” He looks at John then, and John’s immobilized by his gaze. “You’ve changed everything in my life. You’ve upended it completely, and I swear you never realized. At first I thought I resented you for it, but then I realized you made my life better. Brighter. I didn’t even know I wanted it to be brighter, but now I don’t want it to be any other way.”

They’re sitting in near-darkness now, but John can’t be bothered to stand up and turn on a light. “But you left me. You _left_ me by jumping off a bloody roof. If I make your life better, why did you remove me from it?”

“I needed to save you,” Sherlock replies. “You were in danger, and the only way to save you was to fake my death.” He leans forward, his eyes shining in the dim light. “Everything I’ve done since we met has been for you. Everything.”

There’s a million things John could say, infinite possibilities. There’s so much he doesn’t understand. He has several questions he is dying to ask, but none of them feel right. No response feels right, except for one.

“I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it! Please let me know if you did!


End file.
